The Color of War
by equine02
Summary: A story dedicated to our lovely Doc, who doesn't get much screen time, but deserves it :) WARNING: DOES CONTAIN DISCRIPTION OF INJURY, THOUGH NOT GAPHIC. Please Review!
1. The Blood of the One

**Disclaimer: I don't own em, just playing, and then I'll put em back, I promise.**

Saunders kept low, burying the toes of his boots into the muddy earth beneath him. On his left, Kirby, firing rapidly, had almost the same belly-down posture, sweating madly. On his right, Doc lay similarly, looking tired and helpless without a weapon, his medical pouch on hand. Littlejohn was somewhere nearby, amidst smoke and screams of the wounded.

Back at camp Lt. Hanley was resting, having taken bullet to the chest and several pieces of shrapnel, three in the back. Doc said he was in critical condition, though the doctor's there suspected full recovery, but it would take time for him to get back on his feet. Time and rest, and lots of it. And so, here they were, pinned down by enemy troops, without the orderly and somehow calming presence of their battalion leader, and it took every strength to keep Saunders from screaming, "Fall back!"

Doc was sure this state of peril couldn't go on for much longer. Hours of it, it seemed, and not much change. Bullets were peppering the ground all around them, digging furrows and tiny holes all around. Funny how that is, such tiny things, bullets are. And yet, one wrong move or twitch of the finger and a man could _die._ There was no such thing as fear of _bullets_ , not on their own. But fear of death… how was that?

His thought process was interrupted when a thud sounded. Saunders had caught a bullet in his right arm. He was slowly pushing himself around like a broken clock hand, staying close to the ground, till he was facing the right way and could flip himself onto his stomach again. A cold sweat had broken out on his forehead as Doc slid forward and tied a makeshift bandage around the wound. A through-and-through. A good thing, to be sure, but it still lacked proper care. If that wound got infected- _Oh,_ thought Doc, _there goes the medic in me._

A long time ago he'd been a grocer, in what felt like another life. Tying up packages of meat was sure different from tying up a tourniquet. To save a man's life, well, that was something big. Bigger than his other job, than his other life.

"You gonna be able to shoot, Sergeant?"

"I'm okay. Thanks, Doc." He grimaced. A grenade detonated close by. Too close for comfort, and that triggered the flight instinct in them. After all, there was no "fight" with explosions. But Saunders held fast and though he seemed battle weary enough to drop right then and there, he squeezed off a series of random, un-aimed shots in the enemy's direction.

When a scream and a distinct thud sounded from enemy lines, Doc got a rush of relief and pity. Whoever gave that scream was most likely dead, and if not, going to suffer greatly in future days. Gunshot wounds were far from easy fixes.

Several shots sounded from all sides, adding to the din of surrounding enemies. Smoke, fire- funny thing how war awoken all of the senses, flooding the mind with horrible and beautiful images. Currently, Doc was thinking of a lady who used to visit the grocers often- she had bright chestnut hair…. lovely, lovely brown eyes. Oh, and her small nose. Sometimes she'd come just to see him, to flirt. He hadn't particularly _loved_ her. But as a young boy, he'd had a crush on her, with those scarlet red lips. Red like blood. Like the blood on him. Coming from him. He blacked out.

 **Tell me what you guys think, please. I need feedback! Thanks for reading! Please tell me if you want more!**


	2. The Blood of the Many

**Chapter two, people! Enjoy, and leave reviews, otherwise I might… accidentally kill Doc. And we wouldn't want that? No pressure people!**

 **A/N: I don't know if Sergeant Saunders was right or left handed, so I am pretending he's right handed. The reason for that is because I usually make my characters left handed, because- trivia! - so am I! I wanted to try something different this time**

 **Still don't own em. Darn.**

"Doc's hit!" Billy Nelson exclaimed, sliding into the pit where the small group took cover. Sweat poured down his face.

"Where?" Saunders shouted, glancing at Billy, who crouched low over Doc, turning him onto his side.

"Looks like he got it twice. Chest and right arm."

"Careful, Nelson, keep low. Don't need you getting your brains blown back to base."

Shots continued to sound from both sides.

Doc's eyes fluttered and his hand came up weakly to find Billy's face. That meant he was coming to, figured th younger of the two. As soon as he was half-conscious, he bolted upright, ignoring the pain when he saw what was happening beyond their cover.

"Get down!" He yelled. Billy, who was trying to stop him from struggling, and Doc, who was feeling the effects of the bullets right about now, hit the ground just in time as an explosion lit the air with brilliant orange and red, speckled with shrapnel and flying debris. Billy landed awkwardly with his head over Doc's shoulder, like he was hugging him. Doc groaned, "Nelson, tell the Serge, I saw two German Infantry men runnin' round on our left! One of them set that grenade!"

Billy did as he was told.

But no sooner had he seen the shadow that was the young soldier leave him to tell the Sergeant, that everything went blackish-red. _Grenade_ , thought Doc. And then it was only black.

* * *

Upon waking, smoke was the only thing Doc could identify. His limbs were like lead. Heated lead. Looking down, he found that his pants were singed to ashy feathers up until about the knees, where the burning wasn't so bad; but at least his feet were still attached. _Not for long_ , he figured, _if they aren't tended to right off._

Twisting carefully, he saw that they were still in the pit, though half of the dirt that had made the wall between the squad and the German troops had been blown over by the explosion. He saw a boot sticking out of the dirt, and immediately began to drag himself over. The going was slow, and he felt his wounds bleeding again. The chest wound still had the bullet in it; there was no exit wound. But his arm had been a through-and-through, just like with Saunders. Lucky.

Digging with his good arm, he eventually uncovered a leg, and a knee. Looking up, there was a half of a head and shoulders sticking out of the dirt. It was Hanley. To his far left, on the Saunders and Billy were laying stretched out, probably knocked back by the force of the explosion. Doc uncovered the Lieutenant's face as best he could, and promptly collapsed, breathing heavily. There were sounds of stirring, and soft murmurs from the others. He wasn't quite sure what had happened, because next thing he knew, he was in the back of a jeep, a strangely familiar looking medic feeling his forehead for a fever, and seeming disappointed at what he found.

"Sergeant Saunders? This one's got a pretty bad fever; he needs medicine, and a place to rest until the-"

"-What he needs is a hospital." Serge interrupted from somewhere that Doc couldn't make out in his fever-weary mind.

But gosh, Doc had never felt so cold. How could he have a fever? Fever… he felt cold. He felt…he didn't have a fever? Sergeant? No. But he was hurt… so, where was Saunders…. And Caje? His friend Caje. He was dead- no not dead. He was… he was…. why was it so hard to remember? Base. That's right. Very cold at the base. Or here….

By now he was too far gone to know that he was saying this all out loud.

"Doc…. Medic…. _I'm_ a medic. I've got…..You… breathe… He's not breathing, oh God he's not breathing! He's dead, Sergeant! God!" Doc was sobbing now, confused.

Above him, Saunders was worryingly gripping his friend's hand, not letting his fear become evident on his face.

"I can give him a shot of Morphine to ease it, but otherwise there's not much we can do, Sergeant." The medic told him.

"What about Billy and the Lieutenant?"

"Minor injuries. Lieutenant Hanley has a few cracked ribs, and had a splinter of shrapnel in his calf. We took care of that, and he's resting. Nelson had a bad sprain in his arm, but he'll be fine; it's the doc here who needs care, Sir."

"Don't I know it." Saunders ran a hand through his hair, his eyes catching the glare of the sun on his freshly bandaged arm. The linen was so white that the sun seemed to cause light to radiate off of it. "Right, Doc. Do what you can for him."

"Yes sir."

* * *

Saunders spent half the night laying on his back thinking. His lips were dry, but he was too exhausted to rise and get the scant amount of stale water left in his canteen.

Even sleep took too much effort. He couldn't keep his eyes closed, thinking about deep losses of the day. Four inexperienced soldiers' dead. The rest of his men were injured in some way. The thing that troubled him most was this: if his best men could get knocked out by a _grenade_ , what would happen when there were bombs? Regardless of the fact that they had finished off the Germans, and the remaining two were killed in their own explosion, he still felt the letdown of losing a battle.

Instead of trying to sleep, he allowed the echoes of phantom bullets to ring through his head while he got up and fetched from his pack a small piece of stocky paper like material. The corner was browned from someone's- probably his- dried blood, and a little tear ran from that corner and halfway through the paper. But it was the closest thing he had to paper that wasn't being used to stop the bleeding from a bullet hole in the medical tent.

He took out a stub of a pencil that was ridiculously hard to hold, forget write with, and put it to the paper.

Hi Mom,

How's the family? Is Louise taking French this year? That man I told you about, Caje, was thrilled when I told him she might. He's French.

The troop got pretty beaten up today. Lost several green men, and our doc's been hit pretty bad, the Lt. too. I wouldn't tell you this, except I know you'd pester me about it in all your letters for months after if I didn't. By the time you get this, we should be all moved out and on our way. Oh, and I apologize for the handwriting; took a bullet in my right arm earlier today. Oh, don't give me that look. I know you worry, but you shouldn't- I'm a grown man, and this is hardly the worst.

Love you Mom, stay safe and make sure Louise doesn't go flirting with Andy Rooch. Or Caleb Hackney. Both troublemakers, least they were when I was last home. And whatever you do, don't go signing any papers for that fool kid brother of mine. He needs you as much as you need him.

Sincerely,

Chip

He fell asleep soon after to the sound of distant gunshots.


	3. Only the Brave would Understand

**Here's chapter three, and by the way, I** **can** **see when you view this baby, so I know that you do, so please, please, please make a poor starving artist happy, and review. Even just a few words would be nice** **Thank you esp. to Sgt. Saunders143 (did I get it right?) for reviewing and giving me tons of support and feedback. Thanks lovely readers, invisible though you may be.**

 **Disclaimer: chapter three, and I** _ **still**_ **don't own em.**

Morning came, bringing the need to find an ambulance in a battleground of mines. Many of the men at camp would die without a hospital. Leaving the injured men behind, Saunders collected up a practically whole new squad. The only men he already knew well enough to call by their first names were littlejohn and Caje, who seemed pretty battle-weary themselves.

The new men ranged from green to expert. Mostly on the green side, there was Kennedy- Louis Kennedy, a jumpy little guy with carrot red hair and unrealistically green eyes. He was nineteen. Then there were brothers, Oliver and Gregory Myron. Oliver was in his early twenties, and rather a bored looking fellow, with a sagged expression. His brother was a mirror image, only about ten years older with a five o' clock shadow. And then there was Joshua Carpenter, who was about thirty. He was a dashing fellow, all muscle and good looks. _Too good looking_ , thought Saunders, _to fight a bloody war._

Eldest of all of them, even Saunders, was old Lawrence "Loper" Rafael. He was nearly fifty, with a strong build and tired, worried expression constantly. That being said, he wasn't bad looking for his age, and the boys liked to tease him that his true age would catch up to him one of these days. Lastly, there was a tiny little guy who barely passed as a medic. He looked more like a chipmunk.

"Move out!" Serge yelled, waving for the squad to catch up. Caje slung his rifle higher up on his shoulder and began to whistle quietly. About halfway through their journey, he stopped, listening.

"You hear that, Sergeant?"

"Get down," he whispered. He waved to get the others down. Taking cover behind the trees, they waited.

"Hörten Sie Heinlich von seinem neuen Freund sprechen?"  
"Weiblich."  
"Ja, ja, was sonst?"

"Shhh, sprich nicht so laut, du nennst die ganze amerikanische Armee, diese Wälder sind mit ihnen übersät ..."

"What did they say?" Saunders asked Greg Myron, who spoke some German.

"Something about a guy named Heinlich- something about his girlfriend, I think. And then they said to be quiet, or they might draw out the Americans- us. They know we're all over the place. There were four of them."

"Okay," he thought for a minute, "Carpenter and Caje, you watch to make sure they don't double back. If they start to, stay low and report to me. The rest of you, follow me."

Everything went well getting behind the troop, but it was moving away from them that caused all the trouble. Oliver, standing straight up, took a shot at a German none of them had even seen. Though he'd probably saved their lives, it hadn't been the same for him.

All hell broke loose.

* * *

Doc's fever had only gotten worse overnight. He found it increasingly difficult to breath, struggling, gripping the sheets. His coughs grew raspy and wet, and a trickle of blood ran down the corner of his mouth almost constantly. The medics sedated him as much as possible, but there were no doctors, and no way to operate.

Lt. Hanley's injuries had become infected, leaving him as feverish as the doctor, though strong enough to exchange some comforting words with his comrade, whose bed was next to his. When he wasn't asleep, Hanley would talk to him, tell him what was going on.

"Sergeant Saunders left this morning with a squad. They're going to bring back doctors."

"….doctor…. I'madoctor….doc-mmmm."

"Shh, save your breath."

"Mmmm."

"You're a stubborn fellow. Like my brother."

"B'rther. Idon'hava b'rther…"

"Shhh, go back to sleep."

* * *

The squad made good time after the holdup. They'd exchanged fire with the Germans for a good twenty minutes. The going was slow, and Greg mourned his brother every step. But that was war- those who deserve it least would go first. Saunders had a sinking feeling Doc deserved it least of them all.

 **Please review! I wasn't really happy with this chapter, but felt obliged to update, so here it is. I'll be busy on some others, so I might have to pick up on this one in a few days.**


	4. Scarlet

He was dreaming of her.

"Dance with me." She whispered. They were in a very cold place, fill of hushed, distant voices, and frigid, swirling breezes that felt thick around his ankles. She was very beautiful, very warm, when he took her hand, when she rested her head on his shoulder. They were alone, except for the voices. But he ignored the voices. They were of no consequence to his happiness. Drifting. He was drifting over air, dancing with her. Her fingers were feather soft, intertwining with his.

She was only a dream, but too real to be anything but flesh and blood. And her bright red lips gleamed softly, scarlet on a face of white.

Oh, but it was cold. He was surprised to hear himself moan at the chill, and he shifted. She paid him no mind, but they continued to dance through that thick, cold air. He began to suffocate, moving his body away from hers, gasping. The air held him up, horizontally, almost, and yet somehow he was still on the ground dancing with her.

Doc didn't recall ever ending that dance.

* * *

Hanley was waking up slowly from drugged sleep. Several hours ago he'd been pretty bad off, and now he lay on his side, breathing heavily his first waking breaths. A medic with strong looking hands and a sleepy face wandered by his bed, checking his bandages. Smoke from several cigarettes wafted over, the result of a few walking wounded enjoying their time out of immediate danger.

The sound of sloshing brought his mind to another place. Painstakingly, he turned his head. Doc was still there, only stripped to his boxers, laying in what looked like a nearly comatose state, on a bed of ice and, judging from the sloshing, water. His chest rose slowly, exaggerated with struggle to suck in precious air, and each time it did, ice clinked and tumbled onto the floor, some of it rescued, most of it melted. Three nurses and a field doctor crowded around him, the Doctor taking his pulse and temperature, the nurses sponging him off with cool water. The Doctor walked away to tend to a man with several deep head lacerations, motioning for a nurse to follow him. That left two nurses and Doc, with Hanley watching curiously. Soon the nurses removed the ice, and two orderlies lifted Doc onto a real bed. Once the man and ice were gone, Hanley saw that it was not a cot Doc had been lying on, but more of a shallow bath. Now dry and wrapped in blankets, he was moved right next to Hanley.

"What happened?" the Lieutenant asked, carefully coughing. It still hurt to do so, stretching the wounds made by shrapnel to his back.

"Ah, Lieutenant, you were just in surgery… again. You'll be alright, just stay still. You'll pull the stitches, moving like that. Is there anything you need?" Her voice had a pleasant British accent, and though she smelled like the blood and sweat of the men under her care, it was somehow comforting, as if he knew she cared enough about them all to get dirty saving them. Hanley had never felt so at ease with that smell.

"Water?" he croaked. She gave it to him, "I meant, what happened to Doc?"

"You know him?" she glanced at the man, who was shivering, and quickly covered him with another blanket.

"Yes, he's with my squad. What happened, why…" he struggled, coughing. The nurse quickly helped him drink, which was difficult while lying on one's side. He tried again, "why...the ice?"

"His fever became dangerously high. It's lower now, thanks to the ice. Several French women who live close by sacrificed ice from their iceboxes for your medic. They haven't got any food to keep fresh anyway…" she drifted, seeming to think of something from another time and place. He wanted to ask her how a British nurse ended up in an American Aid station, but the question, he knew, was for another time. Another place, just like her thoughts.

"Thanks." He smiled, looking past her to see Doc shifting restlessly. "We owe you one."

"No," she replied, looking over her shoulder, unforgettable scarlet lips smiling sadly, "You don't me anything. The war does."

 **So guys, very short chapter, but guess what! You get another one! In the same day! Lucky you! (Just not lucky Doc. Or Hanley. Or really anybody who I am torturing to make this a fan-worthy fic. Sorry guys, I love you, but it must be done.) See you at the end of the next chapter people. Leave reviews, tell me what you think, suggestions…. Did I mention to leave reviews? I live for them! (not really, but it's like water. You kinda need it to keep living, ya know?)**


	5. Adrenaline

**Welcome to chapter four, everybody! For those of you who have read this story this far (few though you may be, precious that much more to me) I want to thank for your dedication. Currently I am working on a Star Trek 2009 story which has become wildly popular (for me, cause I get like, no reviews…. Ever.) so I'll be updating that one soon. Again, thanks, and enjoy. This is an action chapter for our wounded, so stay tuned.**

 **Disclaimer: Really? You think I own them. Look at the last few disclaimers and see if you understand that, no I don't get money from these guys. I do have fun tho.**

Saunders thought they'd got out alright. But soon enough, the squad had run into more trouble. Having Billy as the only wounded, he thought they got out pretty lucky. A bullet wound to the leg, and it wasn't too bad, though it had bled heavily at first and the kid was weak. Littlejohn had supported him till he passed out, and the big man simply scooped him up into his arms, carrying him bridal style. They'd been pinned down by Boche on both sides, but now that it was over, Saunders knew there was a slightly bigger chance that those men at that aid station would get help. It wasn't only the Lieutenant and Doc who were dying, though several times he had to remind himself of that. War had wiped the smile off his face, but certainly not the concern. He hoped, and wished, and begged. And he had disappointments, like other men. Human. Funny to think of himself that way, when war saw him as a machine, able to take orders and carry them out, even at the risk of losing his life. Machines knew no fear, and worst yet, knew no life. Not a single soldier here didn't fear death in some way, even if it wasn't their own they worried for. Sometimes the fighting became not for the countries involved but for the souls perishing daily, for the desperation of survival which drew far more out of a man than military training ever could. That, and pure adrenaline. Ah, but didn't survival and adrenaline marry well? Each fighting the other, so that when both gave up, a man was left to pick up the little fragments of hope he'd carried so big and proud into war. Bullets tore it apart at first sight, but even torn, there it still was. Only now, it's shattered state allowed it to spread, becoming something that every man could carry, regardless of fears and weaknesses, or even the strengths they had. That was the only beautiful thing he'd found in this place of darkness, where blood ran thick like rivers through the memories of children who'd been given rifles and told to fight. At least, that's what he remembered.

* * *

Hanley groaned when he realized what that sound was. It certainly wasn't a nurse keeling over from the sudden heat that occupied the tent, as his fevered mind would have liked to believe.

An explosion. It was perfect really, on Germany's part. Everything planned out, and set up and yet whoop-dee-do, here he lay, probably bleeding and dying, but he somehow didn't care. It was Doc he wanted to get to. The man's eyes had snapped open a moment earlier, and, coming out of a fever dream, he was slowly realizing that something wasn't there, though Lord knew he wanted it to be.

"Where'dyougo?" Doc mumbled, searching for something by way of clawing the air. Another explosion sounded too close by for comfort. Everyone who was conscious covered their heads. The rest of the men lay like stiff dummies, waiting to be impaled by shrapnel or bullets or whatever decided to fly their way.

"Getdowngetdowngetdown!" somebody with a deep, raspy voice was screaming.

A man with silvery black hair stopped in just the wrong place, and Hanley watched as his body was snatched off the ground and promptly dropped back onto it, where he simply lay, not dead, but obviously not aware of anything anymore, greyish eyes searching the sky.

Hanley fell out of his cot, which he was already half out of, and sprawled next to Doc, gripping the collar of the medic's shirt. "Get up! Doc, wake up!" he slapped the man's cheeks, yelling over the sounds of attack.

"-Yessirdon'wanna." He decided in one breath, head rolling deliriously. Hanley, seeing that men of every medical state were evacuating, picked up Doc, who was slightly lighter than he'd expected, in his arms and began to run. He did remember jumping out of the way of several trucks, and watching some crazy private run into the fire of an explosion. By the time he got out of that camp, though, he could barely remember leaving it.

He didn't stop running, barely feeling the limp form in his arms. Sometimes he would look down to make sure he hadn't dropped the man. Every time he looked down, Doc was there. His arms were numb, however, leading to the illusion that somehow he'd managed to drop the man without noticing it.

Adrenaline, he found, was by far superior to morphine. For one thing, it numbed just as well, and for another, one didn't tend to doze off on a healthy dose of it. By now, Hanley couldn't even feel his legs, though he knew he was running. The one thing he did feel was a wetness running down his back. Had he fallen? Was it raining? Well, to answer the first question, he was obviously still upright, and to answer the second, the only rain he felt was composed of dirt and odds and ends that had been shredded in the explosions. So he must have pulled those precious stitiches.

Pretty soon Lieutenant Hanley found himself at a crossroads. Literally. Two paths, one leading…. Well, who knew what direction at this point. All he knew was that it was dark down one, and slightly darker down the other. This might have been because it was by now nighttime, though he had failed to notice until recently. In the distance, a battle which seemed to grow quieter by the second was going on, filled with things that hours ago he'd been so close to dying from.

Just about then it hit him. Not exhaustion. Not even pain. But it hit him so hard he fell to his knees, Doc falling with him. Twisting around, the woods were quiet, no explosions. They remained dark, void of flames and death.

But his realization was all the more startling because of that.

"Lieutenant Gil Hanley," he spoke aloud, "you are a deserter."

And worse yet, without even trying, so was Doc.

* * *

Saunders was frustrated. Nope. He was far from frustrated. He had passed frustrated back at about lunch break. Now he was just angry. Billy was pretty bad off, moaning and muttering about his leg hurting, and something about a dog who got ran over by his uncle's tractor. Littlejohn was lost for words when the kid started crying at his own story, head tossing back and forth. Caje was with the other men, eating their rationed food, drinking their rationed water. Wishing for unrationed wine.

It was the sound of explosions in the distance that really did it. All of them automatically dove for cover, and then sheepishly crawled out.

"Serge, Billy's bad. He needs a Doctor." Littlejohn shifted his burden, who complained in a feverish mumble.

"I know that! Don't you think I know that? I'm doin' the best I can. We're gonna keep pushing, onto the next crossroads. C'mon, let's move it men. We'll get Billy to a Doc soon." His last words were deflated, and etched with fatigued.

Caje glanced at Littlejohn, and they both knew right off that the last promise would be hard to keep.

* * *

Hanley chose the slightly-less dark road. He supposed it was a stupid thing to do-after he'd done it. For now, he was in the presence of the Boche, who sat with their backs to him around a campfire. He dared not move, let he was heard. His knees were weak. And he was running out of that wonderful thing called adrenaline.

 **So there you have it! Tell me what you think, and thanks for reading guys! I'll update soon, I hope, but 2 chapters should hold you off for a while, right? Have a good day!**


	6. I have felt the rain, Mine enemy

**Hello!**

 **I am so grateful for all the reviews, favs, follows, and views on this story! I have had so much fun writing it! So here we get a bit of Billy's side of things; some of the things that happen to Billy are based on the events of "Glow against the Sky." (I made up Hanley and Billy's serial numbers, don't remember them) We'll see more on Doc and Hanley mixed in**

 **Disclaimer: nope. Don't own em.**

It wasn't the pain that made him drop out of the land of the living, rather blood loss. It only emphasized the need for an ambulance. Billy had to come with them; they were too far into Boche territory to turn back. When he came to, his head was resting against something hard that felt like a leg. A corner of what was probably the owner of the leg's canteen pressed into his shoulder, and his whole leg was on fire. There was an aching numbness at the base of his back from laying still so long, and when he tried to move, he knew it was a mistake. He groaned.

"Easy, buddy. Stay still, Billy. They're making a stretcher. Serge, Billy's woken up." It was Littlejohn's voice, and it had never sounded so nice to the wounded man.

"Hi-ya, Serge." He whispered, rasping. "Hi-ya, Littlejohn. Thought you were back at camp, hurt?" He was confused.

"That was weeks ago, buddy."

Billy seemed dazed, and only siad, "Serge?" He searched for the man as far as his eyes would let him while lying on his back.

"Nelson," the Serge checked his leg. "Well Nelson, you sure don't do things halfway, do yah?"

"What's that mean?" he murmured.

"You took that bullet in such a place that it shattered your shinbone. Wouldn't be so bad, except it's…" he hesitated.

"What is it?" Billy tried to sit up and look, but the instant pain resulting was aggravating. His breathing grew heavy in panic. Had they taken his leg? Would they have to take it?

"…Billy, you gotta calm down, now stop worrying. We didn't take the leg, and I hope we won't have to. But the bone is sticking through." Billy's eyes went wide.

"How?" The private's voice trembled.

"Well you tried to stand after you were shot, and the bone was already broken. It went through and you passed out. Do you remember?" Serge was crouched down next to him, speaking softer than Billy had ever heard. The wounded boy's head lolled drunkenly.

Caje crawled over, "how is he doing?"

"He'll be okay, long as he doesn't go into shock; how it coming with the litter?"

"Carpenter, Kennedy and Myron are almost done."

"Jeez, it takes three guys to make a litter nowadays?" Billy tried to joke. He winced at the sharpness of his voice ringing in the quiet of the woods.

"Here they come." Littlejohn carefully transferred Billy's head off his lap and onto the ground. The boy groaned, but more from the uncomfortable feeling of being deadweight.

"Careful. You okay, Nelson?"

"Fine, Serge. Fine."

"Good. Let's go."

* * *

Hanley's eyelids felt like metal. Once they were half closed, the only way they'd move was down. He was brought out of a mental struggle with the lovely but inconvenient thing called sleep by a sound of a voice by his side.

"Lieutenant!" Doc was awake, though barely. He propped himself up, covered in sweat. "Where are we? Did it rain? Why am I wet?"

Hanley smiled deliriously. "No." He lifted his hand laboriously. "You're fever's broken." He slurred, bring his hand down with a thump on the other man's leg.

Doc struggled into sitting position. His bandages felt tight and grimy. Oh, what he wouldn't give for a real cup of coffee, and a pretty piece of ham with maple syrup. And maybe his old job. And his old house, with its hardwood floors and old farmhouse looks. And his bed. When he got back- if he got back- he'd go straight there- if it was still there. He hadn't realized that Hanley was trying to get his attention, or that he was saying all this aloud, till the lieutenant was shaking him. He lurched forward.

"Doc, be quiet. We're right next to a German encampment."

"We're not in our camp anymore? How'd we get here?"

"I-or, rather, we-ran."

"Lieutenant-"

"Shh!"

But Doc didn't see what Hanley saw. To be exact, the German which stood behind him.

"Amerikaner."

* * *

Billy's eyelids fluttered. He felt his mouth moving, words forming, and their vibrations against his throat, but he didn't hear them. All he knew was that the trees were falling on him. They were falling so fast.

"No! No! Don't…Serge, you- not…. if…. falling…. oh, God, its falling on me!" he was screaming. He kept seeing those trees splintering, crashing, breaking, protruding at or angles like the bone in his leg.

A hand clamped over his mouth, but he tried hard to fight it.

"Shh, Billy." The litter was set down carefully. "Serge, we gotta try to set that leg."

"Tell me something I don't know. But he needs anesthesia. That leg's going to hurt more than anything he's ever felt if we try to set it, and there's a chance there are fragments of bone, not to mention the bullet. It's lodged against the bone, and opening him up here… well, I'm no doctor, but crippling the kid is something I can't stop from happening if something goes wrong. And infection- I don't want to risk it." Serge ran a grimy hand through his hair.

"But he's going into shock!" Kirby stepped in.

"Shut up, Kirby. We know that. It's a few more miles, and we'll be near enough to the aid station to send someone ahead for an ambulance. We just gotta hold on." Serge got up and went over Myron.

"How're you doing?" he asked Greg.

"I'm okay, Sergeant. How many miles more?" He looked at his feet.

"I'd say three or four. You sure you'll be able to concentrate, Soldier?"

"Yeah. Just, Sergeant?" the man looked up at his commanding officer's face, studying it, "Don't ask me about it again."

Serge's face was hesitant. "Okay. But Myron, I'm sorry, about Oliver. It was my bad judgement, leading us through-"

"-I said don't talk about it!" he yelled. "Sir." His gaze dropped. Serge didn't hold his gaze long as he moved away. On the stretcher, Billy was hallucinating again.

"William Nelson… Serial number 12298546…. Boche…Krauts! I won't tell you anything."

"But soon you will. All of you, weapons down." A German-accented voice said, "you'll be surprised what you're going to tell us." Serge froze.

* * *

Doc was drifting again, thinking of the woman with the bright red lips. Her voice ricocheted off the confinements of his mind. He slept, the Boche encampment changed watches and guards like clockwork. Hanley waited, watching. Until something changed, and he wasn't tied up, that was all he could do.

"You… you speak no German; this is true?" Asked one of them, stepping from the firelight. His glittering blue eyes were the shade of ice in front of a light.

"That's true," gasped Hanley, straightening his sore back, "but you know that."

"Also true. You see, I wish to ask you questions. And there is no use in your resistance. You have answered my first question, and you will answer my next." He leaned in, "Why are you here?"

"Lt. Gil Hanley, serial number 54877720."

"I know this. Why are you here?" his words were sharp, acidic, hanging in the air like smoke after an explosion.

"We are here because you brought us here."

"Fool!" the man gripped Hanley's collar, holding him close to his face. The Boche's breath stank of old rations and stale water, and Tabaco.

"Fredrik, sei nicht blöd. Wir verhören sie. Das ist alles. Jetzt weiter, aber ohne diesen ... Einschüchterungsfaktor. Es funktioniert nicht auf Amer..." Another German officer said sharply, and walked over to him, looking annoyed.

"Jawohl."

"What'd… what'd they say Lieutenant?" Doc murmured, pretty out of it.

"I don't know Doc."

"Be quiet!" The officer slapped Hanley. The other officer rolled his eyes, walking away.

The night felt so young, and for once, that wasn't a good thing.

* * *

"Billy? You need to hold on." Littlejohn whispered.

A German soldier prodded him in the back with his rifle, and said what Littlejohn figured was the German equivalent of "Shut up."

It would be a long night.

* * *

Billy's mind was fuzzy. The danger which had felt so close earlier was now far away, as if in a faraway memory. He found that thinking aloud was nice to do, though someone was yelling. In German. Which seemed somehow wrong, but truly, he didn't care. He was so comfortable. So warm. He was so warm. A little bit too warm, but it felt good. Until it began to rain. And there was thunder. And a storm. But he was warm, so he was happy.

That storm was getting heavy, seeming to have come from nowhere. Thankfully, Hanley and Doc were moved inside. A German doctor was tending to the unconscious Doc, who moaned softly in his newly developed fever. His face was flushed and sweaty, showing signs of his pain in every movement. A younger, nervous medic tended to his back while 'Fredrik,' their interrogator, paced before them.

"No anesthetic. You're wet. You've ran through fire to get to where you are. You've been asked why you are here in every way, treated with our most… skilled physicians. All of these things should make you stronger, as you Americans say. And yet you _still_ react to pain. So I am curious. How does this feel?" he rammed his fist into Hanley's back. The man screamed as the stitches that held together his torn back ripped. The medic looked slightly offended at the decimation of his handiwork.

"Now tell me why you are here, and who you are? Where is your squad! Tell me!"

Doc stirred, rising in an anger that was foreign to him to express every frustration and horrible thing he had ever thought of.

"You will try.….to beat us down….. you will hurt us…. And you will judge us… and you will blame us for betraying your 'motherland Germany,' though it was never ours. But I do know some German from years spent hearing the cries of your captured men, who suffer because you hold them to such high standards they can't ever keep…. Ich werde dir nie etwas sagen! You hear me- I will never…. tell you… anything….Nazi."

 **Whew, that was hectic. Tell me what you think! TBC soon.**


	7. The River Called Change

**Hi guys** **sorry for the long wait in updates, school has made me super busy, but here is the next chapter, and I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! This one is purely Saunders, hope you don't mind. Next chapter should follow the other guys, but for now I think we need to catch up with the thoughts of everybody's favorite Sergeant. Please reiview, it will make me so happy!**

 **Disclaimer: Don't own them, they belong to someone else, who I don't know the name of…. So…. Yeah….**

Saunders leaned back against a tree. The Germans had set up camp, and Caje was bathing Billy's face with a cloth. The kid moaned and his eyes glistened wetly between slitted lids, watching the world with the taunting warped vision that morphine provided. He soon let himself drift.

Sanders was sure his head was going to explode. All of those things he'd kept packed tightly away all those years, and now the stress of the situation, well, it was going to kill him. But Saunders had dealt with this kind of stress before, in countless ways. Sometimes he vented to Doc, which was regretfully not an option now, because, as far as the Serge knew, Doc was back at medical. Other times he pushed himself into his work so deeply that the fear and chaos blew away with the cold winds leaving him behind to sort out his feelings. Otherwise, he kept it in his mind, speaking to himself, telling himself the incredible story of his life, each day spent among the many heroes who would never be called such but would always hold that place in his mind. Even in his heart, perhaps, though out loud he could never own to it.

That gave him enough inspiration, to hear his own voice in his head recounting the stories which he lived, that he could often mentally transfer the day's worries into energy to keep pushing.

Even in the hardest of times he knew that his guys _had_ to pull through. They were not soldiers exclusively. Nothing they did was ever done perfectly, and God knew how many times they completely failed day to day tasks. And yet they were the most competent people he knew because of their willingness to do these things, and all for a country… well, for the world really. Sometimes Saunders hated that he couldn't be like that in the way they were. All those things they did they did for their friends, not for themselves. But a squad leader didn't have "friends." He had his men, who were expected to do as he asked. And though he knew his men well enough to call them his buddies, he could not dare risk something so important as winning the war to save one of their lives, regardless whether he wanted to or not.

He'd seen awful things, like death in the most horrendous ways, and men who cried so hard their tears were blood, streaking down their faces like scarlet ribbons. Like the many pathways to freedom from the Nazis, stained dark with the grotesque hue of man's blood. From both sides, really. The war only decided exactly where those paths would lead them. Saunders knew that; his men knew it. Anybody who'd killed a man in combat knew better than they would have liked. And once it was done, it was done. A life could be erased so quickly, yet took so much time to be brought to the place it was at death. And how few were those who would return from war unscarred, and totally fearless to face the future. How would thunder sound to them after this bloodbath? How would the cries of children who had only wished to have peace sound? And love? Was there any left? Not for him, he assumed. Those who he had liked, loved even, had died or been unable to return his affections. Only so many times could a man's heart be tossed about like a grenade before it exploded. He didn't want his men to see that, and quite honestly he was afraid to let himself see it. He could just imagine what his mother would feel when she read the words, "We are sorry to inform you that your son has experienced emotional collapse due to his battlefield experiences and will be arriving in the states at the following date…."

His little brothers… God he prayed the war would end before they were old enough to enlist. He prayed there would be no other wars in which they would fight upon their own will, or like some Germans, upon the will of a higher power.

Billy Nelson was hardly old enough to be in the army himself. From what Saunders knew, the kid had enlisted with a friend, and when that friend was wounded on the beach that first day and sent home, Billy had been pretty sore about the way their friendship fell apart when he had to stay behind in Europe. A ticket stateside and a Purple heart, all in the first day of battle…. Saunders almost chuckled. Lucky kid that was, even if he never met him. Billy seemed nice enough himself, though still forging the river between adolescence and adulthood which had already been forged by the other men in Saunders's squad…. Well, except maybe Kirby, who was irritating as a kid most of the time.

Billy's boyish grin and over-all handsome features made him a regular with the younger ladies, even if most of them secretly had eyes for someone older and more dashing. It was fun to play along, letting Billy have his fantasy of popularity which had caused his glow to brighten. At least for a while.

* * *

Saunders hadn't realized that he had drifted into sleep through his train of unending thought. When he awoke it was because of a hand on his shoulder, belonging to Rafael, who grinned sadly and said, "The kid's bad. Cajun needs ya." Grunting, the older man walked away to leave, and it was then that Saunders saw the German guard at his back, scowling. The man had a double chin and irritated, sunburnt skin which peeled off his nose in a very disgusting way. Saunders, through years of self-discipline- swallowed his shudders and rose warily to his feet, making his way over the others. His men were tied up and guarded, all but Caje, who sat with a gun at his back, tending to Billy. There were bags under the man's eyes, and his slumped posture told a tale of exhaustion.

"I'll take over, Caje." Saunders whispered, putting a hand on the shoulder of a man worthy of several days of sleep. Oh, heck, they all were. The men tied up were all asleep, except maybe Myron, who was dejectedly thinking about Lord-knew what. Probably his dead brother.

Saunders knelt next to Billy, "How is it?"

He nodded slowly, swallowing.

"Just take it easy. We're going to get you to a hospital… I promise, Nelson." He smiled so the private would see that it would be alright.

"'kay, Sarge." The boy's eyes were wide, now clear of the morphine. The Germans wouldn't let them have anymore, though the medical bag had more than they needed. However, that bag was in German hands, and those hands would, for some strange reason, not give it up. "Sarge? We prisoners?"

"Yeah, kid, I'm afraid so."

"Sarge, just thinkin'" Billy coughed, "of that time when we got that soap, the soap that smelled like mint, and we all jumped in that little old river and scrubbed up?" his words were weak from delirium, "You think… there'll soap like that in the POW camp?"

"I doubt it Billy, but it's a nice thought. It'll be some time before we see soap like that again." Wistfully, Serge took Nelson's hand and felt the pulse. Slow and mesmerizingly faint. He set the limp hand onto the boy's chest, and upon doing so realized something he had failed to realize before. Billy was no boy anymore. His upper musculature was impressive, and his face was thinning slightly, losing the childhood roundness it had once had. Even Nelson's mannerisms were more adult, the way he blinked up at Serge, and the way his eyes closed slowly as he tried to sleep, fingers twitching in a phantom nightmare. Serge, despite the knot he felt in his chest from the gravity of the situation, and despite the cold tip of a rifle poking into his ribs as a signal to get up, smiled. Perhaps Billy had reached the shore of that river called change.

 **Please review, tell me what you thought! Thank you to everybody who has reviewed, favored and followed me and this story so far, you guys are such an inspiration to me. Let's see how the guys get through this one… Oh, and I've decided Billy likes mint. Hope you all don't have a problem with that…. If you do, there is the possibility he might not make it- just kidding, but seriously, who doesn't kike mint? (please don't hurt me if you are one of those people who has a deep-rooted problem with the green stuff, it's not my fault!)**

 **Oh, and I will also be removing the author's notes in this story, so that should take out 2 chapters, so that's why there are less, just to let you know. I'll be updating soon, I hope** **until then, live long and prosper.**


	8. The color of war

**Hi guys! Sorry for the long wait- internet's been whacky, but here it is. Please R &R, I'd love to hear what you guys would like to see next, and how you liked this one! (I felt this chapter was a little rushed, but please tell me what you thought!)**

 **This is probably the last chapter! Yay, finished my first multi-chapter story! Hooray! God bless America!**

 **Disclaimer: Still don't own them. So sad. I know, pass the tissues and chocolate while I browse the internet for pictures of Saunders being incredible.**

 **For guest reviewer Chris, I changed the end:-) hope you see this.**

Hanley blinked out of sleep, stifling a groan as he stretched his stiff limbs. Doc's sweat-drenched body was close to his, quiet and limp from so much stress. The non-combatant looked horrible, decided Hanley. He gently rolled Doc onto his back. The sweat pouring off him could mean two things; either the wounds were infected, which was the most likely situation, or the fever had broken.

Hanley wanted to cry and laugh at the same time. The fever had broken. It was a miracle.

* * *

Billy rose to the edge of consciousness with reluctance. His head was tingly, and though he could hardly make sense of it now, he would later identify the feeling as blood loss. He felt the steady vibrations of a voice via a hand on his shoulder, and heard the voice a moment later.

"Get your hands off me." The voice was smooth, low and venomous, "can't you see he's dying?"

"Fine, Sergeant." A heavy accent sounded through the fogginess of Billy's brain. A heavy German accent. He snapped to attention, but it took some time for his mouth to catch up to his mind. Before he could say anything, the voice continued. "You may fix your wounded man. But there will be no morphine for him, nothing to cut his pain. Our kind has suffered. Yours will suffer, and then you will talk."

 **(Saunders' POV)**

"Are you insane?" Saunders was angry, "This man is seriously wounded. He'll _die_ from the pain!"

"Then he will die." The German shrugged, "and you will know the loss of your kind."

"I won't kill this boy."

"Then I will do it for you." Waving over two of his soldiers, the German officer ordered them to hold Saunders down while he walked over, crouching next to Billy's head. "You…. Have seen that my men die. It is your fault. But anyone can make mistakes… and so I will help you learn from yours."

"No! Don't do it!" Saunders struggled.

The other men watched with horror as the officer ignored the sergeant and moved over to Billy's leg. Before he made his move, the man grinned and said, "Oh, Private- this may sting a bit."

Billy screamed.

* * *

"Hanely…" gasped Doc, "where are we?"

"We're at the top of the mountain, Doc."

"Huh?"

Hanley, in exhaustion, laughed, "You know how they say 'you're over the hump?' Well, we're at the top of the hump, but looking down, it seems to me we're on a mountain. Now we just gotta find our way down the other side."

"'whas wrong with the other side, Lieutenant? I thought goin' downhill was the easiest part," Doc, weak, closed his eyes.

"The other side has lots of Germans on it. But I've got a good idea that they've got a pretty dull-minded commanding officer. The man has no idea what to do with us. Luck is on our side; these guys only want information."

"How is that lucky?"

"Well, I figure they can't keep us forever, and we're probably still behind our lines. In fact," he winced, feeling the soreness of his back, "in fact I think there's a good chance they're _trapped_ behind our lines. What we need is to make some noise, get a patrol troop to find us."

"That's going to have to be one heck of a fast response, Lieutenant. They'd blow our heads off long before help got here." The sick man's eyes opened, and they peered wearily at Hanley. Those same tired blue eyes which had seen the deaths of others, now void of any form of energy.

"They can't kill us if they think we have information. They won't even know we're getting help."

"How so?" Doc searched the white confinements of the tent. "And why are we alone?"

"There's a guard outside, keep your voice low." Hanley returned a look of urgency, "and as of how we will get help…. we are going to awaken the birds."

* * *

"Is he dead?" Littlejohn's voice was laced with anger as he stared at Billy. "He'd better not be."

Saunders stared at the dead German for a second before he realized he had to move before the other German's came. His own anger had driven him to a point of breaking, and he had killed those three Nazis just as easy as if they were mice. Billy was frightfully still as Saunders released his men and they all stumbled over to the private. Caje took the German's gun's and tossed them to the others, immediately taking down the other guards who'd come running from their posts at the sound of gunshots. Only Rafael was hit, low in the arm, just a graze.

"Is he dead?" Littlejohn asked again.

A long silence.

"No."

The relief was painfully evident in his voice, and a tear of pure adrenaline depravation hit Saunders' hand. He smoothed the hair away from the young soldier's head. "But he will be. Come on, help me."

A quiet whistle sounded. _Da, da-da da-da._ A mourning Dove's call.

Again.

Saunders whistled back. _Da, da-da da-da._

He glanced at Littlejohn. They all listened.

… _. Da, da-da da-da._

"It's someone from the squad. Let's move."

Littlejohn picked up Billy carefully after tying off the makeshift splint, and they moved slowly through the woods, Saunders whistling quietly.

Every time his whistle was returned.

By the time they reached the edge of the camp, Serge had a vague idea of who it was. He heard Hanley's low baritone whispers, and Doc's soft southern replies.

 _They're gettin' close._

 _I know._

 _Why din'int you try to escape, Lieutenant, when you had the chance?_

 _Because you were there. I couldn't escape while carrying you._

 _You could'a left me behind._

 _No, I couldn't have. I will always turn down a chance to escape if there is a man who will be left behind._

 _Well that's stupid._

 _Excuse me, medic?_

 _I said that's stupid. Ain't you ever heard of gettin' an' bringin' back help?_

 _They would have hurt you for letting me escape, maybe even have killed you. I am a Lieutenant-_

 _I know, but you're still stupid._

Saunders grinned at the last southern-accented remark. Definitely Doc.

"Alright, we're going to take out the guard, but quietly," he whispered, "Myron, Caje, Kennedy, you all go that way. Littlejohn, stay with Billy, keep him quiet and out of sight. Rafael, Carpenter, and Kirby, you guys are with me." He glanced at the chipmunk medic, who, through it all, hadn't been much of a help. "You…. Just don't move."

Saunders took out the first guard easily, sneaking up behind him and knocking him out. Across the camp, he saw Caje slip a knife into the ribs on another, holding his hand over the German's mouth. Myron moved in on another guard, but the German swung around and began to open fire, waking the whole camp. Soldiers swarmed around, swiftly falling, until it was only smoke and blood, and a few American GIs who were very much ready to leave the dark of the rainy forest to go home.

Saunders pulled Doc and Hanley out of their bonds with some help, and they approached Caje, who stood looking deflated, standing over Myron.

"He's- "Doc started.

"He is with Oliver." Said Caje softly, shutting the once bright eyes.

Saunders glanced at the horizon, the soft glow against the skyline. His thoughts were in a different time and place as he stared at the lavender sunrise.

"Let's go home."

* * *

 _Dear Mom,_

 _Well, it's been a full week, to say the least. Two of my men and Lieutenant Hanley are recovering from injuries, and I lost two new guys, just this last week alone._

 _I've been thinking of something. There's this article I a few days back, and it talked about all the people fighting the war, all their colors. What is the color of war?_

 _Some people think it's brown and green, like the land…. Or the colors of our uniforms. Some people think it's red white and blue- but I don't feel like that's it, because every nationality has lost something and is fighting for something. Some think it's orange and red, like the explosions that have rent the land. And some think it's just plain red, like the blood we all are sacrificing. I think that it doesn't have a color. I think it is the cold winds that blow away fear, the rustling of a thousand leaves…. The death of something becoming a rebirth. Or perhaps it's color is like a sunrise... lavender, and orange, all shades of soft gentle colors. And I think, or hope at least, I can't be half as good as all that. Then war won't need a color._

 _I know I am miles away from you all, feeling small against the land, but it feels as if I've never been closer to home. It's so good to be alive. So good to be home._

 _Your son,_

 _Chip_


End file.
